BLACK MASS
The doubts set in.
It's a black-clouded day.
Spout rain-water
the gargoyles grey.
Only certainties seem to pass
as the black-clouds enmass.
SANDRA SONG
I shall compare
your yellowy-gold hair
to wheat in the sun.
You will drop your jaw,
laugh and ask "Straw?!"
in a show of fun,
and then upon your head stack
the locks cascading down your back?
IT-WAS-A-REVELATION-0F-VERSE-
TO-BE-SURE-GAVE-ME-AN-IRISH-GYPSY
To be a grown man
I could hardly wait,
as if some mission
was to be my fate.
A fate I so wished
to go endure,
and that mission
I was quite sure
would be to write.
As a gypsy said:
"Just follow your star
with your heart and head."
GOLD-AND-GREY
Will grey, one day,
your every golden curl,
and you sure shall miss
being called a girl.
You'll see that age has summoned.
That everybody calls you old-woman.
VANITY FAIR?
"Mirror, mirror,
on the wall,
who's the fairest
one of all?"
"Narcissus,
but he was male.
Vanity, too,
is your sad tale !"
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